DeKok looked at him, listened to the tone of voice, but did not react. Instead he pointed to the desk next to him.
“Do you know Dick Vledder... the great Dutch hope of the Municipal Police Department... he’s been my partner for ages.”
Schouten frowned in thought.
“Was he here when I left?”
DeKok shook his head.
“No, he came shortly after you resigned.” DeKok tilted his head and looked at Schouten with a question in his eyes. “How do you like being a private eye?”
“I serve whoever hires me.”
“Do you also serve Justice?” asked DeKok with a grin.
“Well,” sighed Jan Schouten, “as an ex-cop it takes some getting used to the fact that the interests of your client take precedence.”
“Precedence over what?”
“Over what you are pleased to call Justice.”
DeKok, with his maddening ability to ignore anything he did not want to pursue, looked over Schouten’s head into the distance. He pointed a finger at the clock over the entrance to the room.
“It’s a quarter past eleven,” he said harshly. “Our shift was over at eleven.” He gave his ex-colleague a closed look. “What is it you want?”
“Clayberg is afraid.”
“And who is Clayberg?”
“President of Clayberg and Bosch. Since his life has been threatened, he distrusts everyone... even me. He wants you to investigate the matter.”
“Where does he live?”
“South Walkway... a large house.”
DeKok shook his head.
“That’s out of our jurisdiction. It doesn’t fall under Warmoes Street. That’s the... eh...”
“Fourteenth Precinct,” supplied Vledder.
“Right,” agreed DeKok, “Leyden Street, Fourteenth Precinct.”
Schouten sighed.
“I know that. And I told him so.” His voice changed. “Do it for me,” he pleaded. “I don’t particularly like Clayberg. He’s a man without scruples. But he pays well and I cannot afford to lose a client.”
DeKok looked at his former colleague with a smile.
“All right, until what time can he receive us?”
Vledder, as usual, manoeuvred the police car through the busy streets. DeKok seldom drove. By his own admission he was the worst driver in the Netherlands, maybe all of Europe. And he was not about to drive in the snow under any circumstances. The flakes came down thick and fast. The wipers could hardly keep an opening for Vledder to peer through. From Amstel Dike they approached South Walkway. The snow became heavier. The young inspector slowed down even more... leaned close to the windshield. South Walkway looked deserted.
Suddenly Vledder pointed and took his foot off the gas pedal. On the side of the road the blue lights of an ambulance rotated. Close-by were the red and blue lights of a police car. Faint tracks in the snow showed that the ambulance had stopped suddenly and then slid to the side of the road.
Vledder allowed the car to creep forward and parked behind the ambulance. There was nobody in sight. The two inspectors stepped out of the car and approached two blanket-covered bodies.
It was strangely silent. The snow seemed to absorb all sound. DeKok leaned forward and lifted the corner of the closest blanket.
He found a dead dog, stretched out and with a long tongue half out of its mouth. It was a Rottweiler. The beautiful black coat had been perforated by several bullet holes. Blood still seeped from the wounds.
The old inspector kneeled down next to the dog and looked at its mouth. Shreds of cloth were stuck between the fearsome teeth. DeKok covered the dog up again and walked to the second blanket. A young uniformed constable came running from the direction of the police car.
“What are you doing?” he called out. “Who do you think you are?”
DeKok ignored the constable.
Carefully he pulled the blanket away. A dead man lay supine in the snow. DeKok estimated his age to be around sixty. He had a round, full face and a dark, receding hairline. The legs were slightly spread and the feet were almost perpendicular to the ground. The dark-blue overcoat and the plaid jacket were open. On the white shirt there was a horizontal line of bloody spots where bullets had impacted. Snow melted on the dead face.
Panting, the constable reached him.
“I asked you a question,” he said in a severe tone of voice.
DeKok ignored the remark and pointed at the dead man.
“Do you know him?”
The constable nodded slowly.
“Mr. Clayberg... President of Clayberg and Bosch. He lives nearby.”
DeKok pointed at the other blanket.
“And the dog?”
“It’s his dog.”
“Make sure that the dog is also transported to the lab.”
“The dog?”
“Yes, I want an autopsy on the dog as well.”
Suddenly the young constable recognized DeKok.
“You’re Inspector DeKok,” he said.
Vledder rolled his eyes and watched DeKok.
“Who found them?” asked DeKok.
“Mrs. Clayberg. She heard the shots and came out to investigate.”
“You were first on the scene?”
“Yes.”
“And you covered them?”
“Yes, I couldn’t just leave them lying in the snow like that.”
“Where’s the ambulance driver?”
“Calling for instructions. He’s not sure he can transport dead bodies.”
“Quite right. Wait for the coroner and the van from the morgue.”
The young constable saluted.
“Now show me the house. I want to talk to Mrs. Clayberg.”
DeKok estimated the woman to be about ten years younger than her late husband. She was seated in an imposing chair upholstered in red velour and fringed with gold thread. She looked upset, small and fragile. Her makeup was streaked and the too-dark dyed hair hung down in disorderly streams.
DeKok leaned forward.
“My condolences for the loss of your husband,” he said formally. “It must have been a great shock to you.”
Mrs. Clayberg attempted a half-smile, but did not succeed.
“I knew something was bound to happen,” she said softly. She raised her head and with a tired gesture removed some hair from in front of her eyes. “May I ask who you are?”
DeKok hesitated for a moment.
“DeKok,” he said after a slight pause. “DeKok — spelled kay-oh-kay.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “This is my colleague, Vledder. We’re inspectors, attached to Warmoes Street station.” He paused. Then he continued in a businesslike manner: “Your husband let the dog out at the same time every evening?”
Mrs. Clayberg nodded.
“Amber,” she said sadly, “had a kind of clock inside. Every evening at the same time she let us know she wanted to go outside.”
“Tonight also?”
“Exactly.”
“What time was that?”
“Half-past eleven... always.”
DeKok rubbed his chin.
“Do you get along with your neighbors?”
Mrs. Clayberg made an uncertain gesture.
“We have a large garden around the house... almost a park. It is Karl’s pride and joy. Karl is our gardener. He’s rather depressed lately. Not his normal self.”
“And why is that?”
“My husband has recently sold a big parcel of land to a developer. He wants to put up a number of houses. Large houses, like this, but much closer together. The neighbors are not too happy about it. They’re afraid the rural character of the area will be destroyed. Zundert, our neighbor on the right, has even threatened to kill my husband if the plans go through.”
“Did your husband take the threat seriously?”
“Certainly.”
DeKok bent his head and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Awhile ago,” he said, “you mentioned that yo
u knew something was about to happen. Did you have reason to assume that... that your husband would be the victim of a crime?”
The woman closed her eyes and sighed deeply.
“I knew it.”
“Intuition?”
Mrs. Clayberg shook her head.
“ ‘Someday I’ll have you shot like an animal,’ ” she said tonelessly.
“Who said that?”
“Gerard... Gerard Bosch, his partner.”
When, around noon, DeKok entered the detective room, he was greeted by Vledder, who was leaning back in his chair, a broad smile on his face.
“This time it’s my turn to ask you how the autopsy went. Usually you leave that nasty job for me.”
DeKok aimed his decrepit old hat at the peg in the wall and missed, as usual. With his raincoat still on, he sat down behind his desk.
“I am well content. The good doctor looked a bit strange when I put the dead dog on the table, but I was soon able to convince him.”
“And?”
A secretive smile played around DeKok’s lips.
“There are professions where it’s difficult to keep your nails clean,” he said mysteriously.
Vledder looked nonplussed.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
DeKok merely pointed at the telephone.
“Call Mrs. Clayberg and ask if the gardener has had an accident.”
“Why?”
“Just do as I ask,” said DeKok, irritation in his voice. He stood up and walked over to where his hat had hit the floor. He bent over and picked it up. Meanwhile he listened to Vledder’s end of the conversation.
After a few minutes the young inspector looked up at DeKok with a surprised look on his face.
“Karl Nelis, the gardener, has called in sick. He caught his hand in a mower.”
DeKok turned around and prepared to leave the room. Just before he got to the door, he turned around to look at Vledder, who had followed him.
“In winter?”
In the River Quarter, so called because all the streets are named after rivers, they found a place for the car in Maas Street. They exited the car and DeKok looked around. It was a street of brownstone houses, rebuilt as apartments, one family per floor.
“This is where he lives?”
Vledder nodded; he always had all those kinds of details ready.
“Number 812. A little farther down... third floor.”
With difficulty DeKok pressed his two hundred pounds up the narrow wooden staircase. Vledder followed easily.
On the third floor the gray-haired sleuth knocked on a door.
A few seconds later the door was opened by a compact man with a weathered face. His left arm was in a sling.
Politely DeKok lifted his head.
“You’re Karl Nelis?”
“Yes.”
“My name is DeKok... with a kay-oh-kay.” He pointed at Vledder. “My colleague, Vledder. We’re police inspectors and we would like to talk to you.”
The man opened the door wider and led the way to the living room. He made an inviting gesture to a number of straight chairs around a square table near the window.
DeKok placed his decrepit little hat on the floor and took a seat.
Karl Nelis sat down at the opposite side of the table and with his free hand wiped away some invisible fluff from the woolen tablecloth. DeKok looked at him with a stony face.
“I arrest you for the murder of Mr. Clayberg,” DeKok said calmly. He reached into a side pocket and produced a cellophane envelope. The evidence bag was sealed with the coat of arms of the City of Amsterdam. DeKok slid the bag across the tablecloth in front of the gardener.
Nelis looked at it.
A stray sunbeam broke through the window and caressed the bloody ends of an index finger and a middle finger.
DeKok made an apologetic gesture.
“Our pathologist found your fingers this morning in the throat of the Rottweiler.”
Sisters and Lovers
by Natasha Cooper
© 2006 by Natasha Cooper
Natasha Cooper has lived all of her life in London, so it’s no surprise that she sets her novels there. In the U.S., her books are published by St. Martin’s Press, and they have also been translated for sale in several other countries. Ms. Cooper’s most recent novel, Gagged and Bound, has been named one of the best paperbacks of 2006 by Publishing News, which says, “Strong characterization and sense of place put Natasha cooper among the best in current crime writing.”
❖
The flight attendant offered me food. I shook my head. Even if I hadn’t felt sick, I wouldn’t have fancied reconstituted chicken. I’d been dining on lamb cooked with pomegranate juice and pistachio nuts for the past week. She moved on, leaving me to stare out of the window.
All I could think about was what I was going to say to Sally. The breakup had half killed her in itself. How would she bear the whole truth? Some people thought she was tougher than she let on, but I knew better.
When she phoned that night, her voice full of panic, I’d gone at once. I always did. Friends said I’d spoiled her, but how could I help it? She was only twelve when Mum died, and I was sixteen. I’ll never forget the way she shook and clung to me then. I had to look after her.
Her eyes were puffy with crying, and Geoff’s letter was crumpled in her hands.
“So you see, Sally,” he had written in the last paragraph, “I’m off to make a new start in North Cyprus. You’ll hate me for a bit, but in the end you’ll see it’d be worse if I stayed and lied to you.”
“He wasn’t answering any of his phones yesterday,” she said, crying again. “But I never thought... How could he, Kate?”
“I don’t know, Sally. Sometimes when we think we know someone...” I didn’t know what to say so I brushed her fine blond hair away from her swollen eyes and tried again. “You never like seeing the truth about people you love, but sometimes you have to. You hated me for telling you to be careful about those investments of his. Maybe I was right and he wasn’t the trustworthy man you wanted him to be.”
“He was once.” She grabbed my wrist. Her palm felt damp, but her grip was strong as ever. “You could bring him back, if you went out there and talked to him. I need him, Kate. Promise you’ll go. Please?”
What could I say? I couldn’t tell her that I was glad Geoff was gone, that I really hadn’t liked him; she looked so fragile and so trusting, I did as any loyal sister would. I promised to try.
In fact it wasn’t hard to find him. North Cyprus is a small place. I booked a hotel room in Kyrenia. They call it Girne now. It’s a harbour with yachts and restaurants round the edge. The first night I went to a bar and met some expats. They knew nearly every English person on the island, so it was easy to ask about Geoff.
They hadn’t met him, but they said they could find out if anyone new had rented a house or flat. It only took four phone calls before they came up with the address.
First thing next morning, I hired a car and drove to where he was renting a villa. There was no one about, but the doors were unlocked, so I knew he couldn’t be far. I called his name, then stood on the terrace, looking round. It was so beautiful. All I could see ahead of me was sea; nothing but sea between me and Turkey.
It was only a minute or two before Geoff emerged from the house in his dressing gown, holding a mug that smelled of coffee.
“I never thought she’d send you,” he said, grinning. “What are you supposed to do? Drag me back to England by my ear?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or at least try to talk some sense into you. What are you thinking of to throw away everything you and Sally have together?”
“You’re out of date,” he said, putting down the empty mug. “I’ve been a bit of a naughty boy, as your sister will discover when the Fraud Squad comes looking for me.” He grinned again. “But there’s no extradition treaty with North Cyprus, so they won’t get me, or the dosh, darling.”
Ho
w was I going to tell her? My head was aching, so I laid it against the cold window. I’d done a bit of digging and now I knew he’d used her name and her money in a share scam. Sally was going to be in a lot of trouble, as well as deeply in debt.
The captain announced our descent. For the first time I was glad when we were held in a queue, then that my case took ages to appear on the carousel. Eventually I pulled it through the Nothing to Declare channel.
There she was, waiting as she’d promised. She looked better. Maybe she wouldn’t crack under the news. I put my arms around her.
“Where is he?”
“I couldn’t make him come. But it’s worse than that, Sally. He—”
I was saved by the buzz of her phone. She pushed me away.
“Yes,” she said into the phone, suddenly crisp. “No, she didn’t manage it. D’you want me to come in now or shall we talk in the morning?”
I must have moved or flinched because she broke off, looking at me. There was a kind of power in her I’d never seen, and a bit of shame. She switched off the phone.
“Don’t look like that, Katie,” she said, wheedling again. “I didn’t do it to hurt you. It’s work. There are things I have to keep secret.”
“You mean, you knew what Geoff was up to?”
“We suspected, but we needed proof. I was collecting evidence.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” A new feeling was growing in me. I hated it.
Sally shrugged. “He could’ve been telling the truth for once. We thought it worth sending you, but you had to believe the story or you’d have screwed up. You never could tell lies and I couldn’t let you jeopardise this.”
I stood back. My sister met my gaze and I felt as if I was seeing her for the first time. “I know you must feel used, Kate, but...”
I blanked the rest of what she said. How could she trick me like this?
Sometimes, when we think we know someone...
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 6. Whole No. 778, June 2006 Page 19